Aimee
Mann is generally regarded as one of the great pop songwriters
around. Unfortunately, she has been chronically kicked around
by record companies and ignored by mainstream radio. Touring
with a full band in support of a great new disc, Mann proved
last Wednesday that her live chops were the equal to her songwriting
skill.

Mann’s
latest album, Lost in Space, is probably her strongest—and
most unnerving. Naturally, she prominently featured these
new songs at the Calvin. Shimmering guitar chords and gorgeous
melodies weren’t meant to disguise the dark lure of this material;
when combined with discordant backing tapes, odd-sounding
electronic samples and, most crucially, fatalistic lyrics,
the effect was powerful and, on occasion, chilling. She opened
with “The Moth,” in which romantic resignation is recast as
a form of self-destruction: “The moth don’t care when he sees
the flame.” The other new songs were even less cheerful. The
title track, “Lost in Space,” made the alienation of someone
like David Bowie or Kurt Cobain seem downright cozy; when
Mann sang “I’m just pretending to care,” the detachment was
chilling. “Humpty Dumpty” recast the nursery rhyme as a reflection
on drug-fueled personal disintegration. Frightening stuff,
rendered with a disturbing beauty—complemented wonderfully
by a simple-but-effective light show, emphasizing repeating
abstract patterns echoing the music.

The contrast
with her older material wasn’t that striking: Mann has always
had a streak of romantic resignation running through even
her best-known songs. Hearing “Choice in the Matter” and “That’s
Just What You Are” in this context just underlined the connection.
One of her earliest solo tunes—“Amateur,” with its sardonic
accounting of a new lover and the chances for a successful
relationship (“I’ve been wrong before”)—was a highlight of
the night.

Mann
owes her higher visibility partly to the Oscar-nominated music
she performed for Paul Thomas Anderson’s sprawling three-hour
film Magnolia. “Wise Up” and “Save Me” were prominently
featured back-to-back; the result seemed like a mini-concert
of its own. (Mann tacitly acknowledged this with her advice
to the audience: “Just pretend frogs are raining down on you.”)
Just as these starkly emotional tunes were used to make a
literal connection between the characters in the movie, they
were an emotional bridge between the cynical romanticism of
Mann’s earlier work and the bleak anomie of her new songs.

The audience
loved her. They gave Mann two standing ovations, and got two
encores in return. The ever-rowdy Calvin audience let her
know what they wanted to hear. The guy insistently calling
for “Superball” went home disappointed, but Mann, surprisingly,
responded to the people calling for “Voices Carry.” Mann is
notoriously sick of her biggest hit, and ambivalent about
the quality of her ’Til Tuesday songs. She responded, with
mock anger: “You just wanted to think of the one song that
would fuckin’ piss me off.” Then she played it, in an impromptu
version that delighted the crowd.

Juliana
Hatfield opened with a solo electric set. Hatfield has always
been a prickly character, offering up unapologetic emotional
challenges (“With a little lovin’/In time you’ll forgive me”).
Her gift for pop songcraft is tempered by a taste for oblique
imagery, well in evidence in the three songs I arrived in
time to enjoy.

Kings
of the Bar

Rocky Velvet Artie’s
Lansingburgh Station, Oct. 4

Rockabilly. When a group of young guys do it right and put
their own stamp on our musical roots, the past is palpable:
It lives and breathes in the present. During a formidable
happy-hour set by the Capital Region’s own Rocky Velvet last
Friday, the spirits were roused from sleep and swirling joyfully
in the rafters. One could almost sense Charlie Feathers, Eddie
Cochran, Gene Vincent and a host of others nodding their approval.

The whole evening was just right—dead right. The cans of Bud
at Artie’s were crisp, and snapped open with a hearty crack,
while at the deep end of the bar the four men from Rocky Velvet,
swathed in warm yellow light, turned the place inside out.
The Velvets’ roots & roll jumped, staggered and ran atop
an iron-clad rhythm section (of Jeff Michael and Jay Gorleski)
that knew when and how to swing, with upright bassist Gorleski
often getting a chance to showcase his chops. Guitarist Graham
Tichy’s Telecaster bursts not only were remarkably supple,
but displayed an elegant (and often ignored) sense of tone.
Watching him beaming like a baby, his fingers running the
frets, folks couldn’t help but shout and smile. Ian Carlton,
meanwhile, seemed meant for the stage. Wandering the crowd,
he looked slight and friendly, the kind of guy you run into
every day. Fronting Rocky Velvet, he was magnetic.

All in all, it was a late afternoon of southbound trains,
truck-driving men and kings of the jungle. There were tattooed
forearms, joyous shouts, and Elvis and Hank staring out from
posters behind the band. There was Graham’s dad John (of Commander
Cody fame), who took the stage with the Velvets for several
rousing numbers. Later, Carlton dispensed with his acoustic
guitar to roar, lumber and shake the very rafters as his once-slicked
hair spilled into his eyes. Then, all too soon, seven o’clock
came. And I’m pretty sure it was me who turned to someone
nearby and said, “I’d see these guys any night of the week.”

—Erik
Hage

Guitar
Men

Roger McGuinn, John SebastianTroy
Savings Bank Music Hall, Oct. 4

Before this evening with two ’60s rock icons began, an array
of guitars was placed on the stage. It was dead simple to
pick out at least one piece of Roger McGuinn’s equipment.
Anyone with half an ear knows McGuinn’s trademark, the 12-string
Rickenbacker electric. McGuinn didn’t waste any time playing
it, either, beginning with his first song—“Younger Than Yesterday,”
one of the many Bob Dylan tunes the Byrds made their own.

It’s easy to forget—if you’re not a Byrdsmaniac, that is—how
long the Byrds were around. McGuinn played tunes from every
era of the group. Early Byrds: “Turn! Turn! Turn!” and “Mr.
Tambourine Man.” Hippie Byrds: “Ballad of Easy Rider” and
“Wasn’t Born to Follow.” Country Byrds: “Mr. Spaceman” and
“You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere.” “Eight Miles High” was transformed
into a stunning 12-string acoustic-guitar showcase. Introducing
the song, McGuinn promised a little bit of John Coltrane and
Bach. He delivered that, and more: It was a tour de force
of dynamics and skill. (And, in contrast to “Tambourine Man”
and “Turn!,” I didn’t miss the vocal harmonies of Gene Clark
and David Crosby.)

If Roger McGuinn weren’t a Christian, I would swear he had
sold his soul to the devil. This is not because of the former
Byrd’s guitar prowess—instrumental skill can survive the ravages
of time. It’s McGuinn’s voice that is unnerving, and of a
quality sufficient to imply a nefarious contract, signed in
blood at midnight. Singing 1967’s “Pretty Boy Floyd,” McGuinn
showed the vocal range and nuance of the kid he was 35 years
ago. Aside from the stellar performance of the song—it was
the evening’s highlight, at least until “Eight Miles High”—his
vocal on “Chestnut Mare” was stunning in its youthful range
and clarity.

John Sebastian, frontman of another ’60s group, the Lovin’
Spoonful, played a mess of his old hits, too. This was interesting,
because, as Sebastian explained, as often as not he’ll play
only jug-band tunes from the 1920s at a solo gig like this.
Though he did play some old-time material, he didn’t skip
the favorites. Alternating between electric and acoustic guitars
and banjo, Sebastian delivered the Spoonful hit parade: “You
Didn’t Have to Be So Nice,” “Younger Girl,” “Nashville Cats,”
and “Summer in the City.” Though his vocal range has shrunk
considerably, he made up for this with swell guitar playing
and genuinely amusing, self-deprecating stories. After all,
how many members of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame will tell
you what riffs they poached to create their hits? Sebastian
did—for those taking notes, Martha and the Vandellas’ “Heat
Wave” led to “Do You Believe in Magic.” Sebastian was just
plain likable, and folks responded warmly.